


i don't wanna be alone (so don't you get lost)

by saltfics



Series: when I watch the world burn (all I think about is you) [1]
Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Henry Needs A Hug, I'm going to make this a tag by myself, M/M, Monster Apocalypse, NOT a virus apocalypse (let's not go there), Tumblr Prompt, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltfics/pseuds/saltfics
Summary: Here’s what he knows:- Austin, TX, and (hopefully) his family are a 26-hour car ride away.- He desperately wants to get home.- He stopped hearing the sounds of people outside half a month ago.As if the apocalypse isn't bad enough by itself, Alex is stuck a whole 26-hour road trip away from his family. And he'll be damned if he doesn't make it there in one piece. But on his last stop to stock up on supplies, he runs into one very familiar face.Monster Apocalypse AU.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Series: when I watch the world burn (all I think about is you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782556
Comments: 48
Kudos: 120





	i don't wanna be alone (so don't you get lost)

**Author's Note:**

> AHAHAH this used to be a tumblr prompt!! "I haven't slept since he/she/they left/died".
> 
> It kind of... expanded. And then expanded some more. And now there's this? I hope you enjoy it anyway!!

Okay, okay, okay. This isn’t so bad. On the scale of ‘how shitty will Alex’s day get today’ ranging from ‘not too bad for the end of the world’ to ‘it's about time he dies in a long, drawn-out, excruciating fashion’, today can be wedged firmly somewhere in between, maybe a bit on the higher side, and labeled ‘he’s about to run out of food, fucking shit, what now?’. And he has survived worse than that, but when the thing you’re trying to live through doesn’t ever stop, you can’t really claim any bragging rights for surviving it quite yet.

When this whole… situation started, when those nasty, godforsaken things showed up, Alex had the tremendous luck to be in New York, 26 whole fucking hours away from his family in Texas, trapped in a city full of people too stupid to stay inside. _They come out at night_ , they said. _Barricade yourselves._

Well. _Some_ did.

It’s been two months—two _whole_ months—since Alex has left his pathetic excuse of a room, and if he’s honest with himself he’s a little afraid to leave, no matter how badly he wants to get home.

Here’s what he knows:

  1. Austin, TX, and (hopefully) his family are a 26 -hour car ride away.
  2. To reach them he’ll have to:



2a. Stock up on food. (Where???)

2b. Learn how to shoot the neighbor’s gun. Without injuring himself.

2c. Steal a car.

2d. Find a way to keep himself safe at night while on the road.

  1. He desperately wants to get home.
  2. He doesn’t know much of anything really.
  3. He stopped hearing the sounds of people outside half a month ago.



And here’s what he doesn’t know:

  1. Is anyone still out there?



Of course it took until his food ran out for him to stop ignoring the problem. He may be burning the candle at both ends with most things, but there are some realities that he just can’t face.

He breaks into his neighbor’s apartment (again) and finds the gun he was hiding in his nightstand. It’s small. Maybe too small. But Alex doesn’t know how to use them anyway. He rummages around for a packet of bullets. The electricity is still on, but all communications are down so there’s no googling how to load these things. 

The next three hours are spent with trial and error, and Alex trying not to accidentally shoot himself in the foot (or the eye, as in a very Luke Skywalker fashion, he stares down the barrel of the gun before he realizes what the fuck he’s doing). It balances oddly in his hands; it feels weird to hold it, even now. Especially when he’s not sure it’s from the beasts that he’ll need the protection.

He trashes the place, collecting the last of the supplies he can find, food and soap and toilet paper, and combines it with his own in an overstretched backpack. In the bowl of keys next to the door, he fishes out what looks like car keys and thanks the entire universe for this one small mercy. Because, frankly, he can’t learn how to steal a car without Google.

His neighbor hasn’t been back for two weeks now. Alex has stopped questioning where he went.

It’s still early when he’s done. He started preparing at dawn so he could leave today. Which was stupid, because now he has no excuse to avoid leaving. The longer he postpones it, the harder it’s going to be, because he needs to find somewhere to hide at night.

So Alex picks up his bag and the gun and gives the room one last look. He sends up a quick prayer for good measure, and shuts the door behind him for the last time.

* * *

“Motherfucking shit. Shit. I’m screwed. I’m going to _starve_ here. Fuck _me_ , my last meal is going to be a too warm pack of Twizzlers.”

Alex is swearing up a storm as he wanders the streets, cringing at the wreckage all around him. He didn’t take the car, wanting to preserve the gas for later. _If_ there is a later, because there’s no way he can embark on a two-day road-trip before he can secure _some_ food. But all the convenience stores, the supermarkets, the bodegas? They’re already stripped bare of the essentials. Heck, even the magazines and cigarettes are gone. And the condoms. He at least appreciates the optimism that humanity is going to survive the next nine months for that to be a problem.

The streets are deserted, the only movement some leftover flyers and wrappers caught in the breeze. Cars have been dumped in the middle of the streets, and Alex prays they don’t belong to people who, like him, tried to drive away from there, only to be picked up on the way. He catches movement from scattered windows: shutters closing, curtains shifting to hide curious glances, but no one comes out to talk to him. 

New York has never been this quiet.

But Alex still can’t find any _food_.

Okay, unconventional times require unconventional thinking. If he can’t loot a supermarket, what _can_ he loot? Taking a guess as to which houses are empty might get him killed but…

He spots a sign that might as well be flaring up like a light-bulb over his head. There’s a hotel across the street from him. Half the windows are already smashed in, thick red curtains torn and draped over pieces of broken glass that stick out like teeth from their frames; it’s a sign of a massacre that’s already long past.

Hotels have mini-bars, don’t they? They have kitchens. In this… probably 50-story hotel? There must be a lot of once-overpriced water bottles and snacks still left over. And toilet paper. And mini shampoos! And okay, he needs to focus.

Alex goes towards it, but pauses at the entrance. With a heavy sigh and a sickening twist in his gut, he cocks the gun, keeping it slightly lowered just in case. His day is already bad enough without discovering he has a trigger-happy finger.

The mechanism for the revolving door has been disabled, but the accessible entrance next to it is still functional with the press of a button. Alex holds his breath as he hears the telltale sound of the door unlocking. He supposes the things can’t exactly grasp the concept of buttons for this to be particularly dangerous for anyone inside, but he still dislikes the way he waltzes in there without a hitch. It’s too easy.

Especially when he sees what’s inside.

The air in the hotel lobby is stale, heavy with dust and remnants of whatever air-fresheners they used before this chaos. It must have been a luxury hotel; the floor under his feet was once polished white tile, though now it’s covered with a film of dust and a patchwork of stains, some dried, crusty red, some a tar-like black he can’t identify. Shattered pieces of crystal that must have once hung on the ceiling are spread across the floor like a scattering of fragile stars, glittering in the little sunlight that streams from the entrance, the only source of light save a few more slivers between boarded-up windows.

But it’s not the signs of pointless luxury that are alarming. It’s the fucking wall of chairs and couches and tables and… is that a _lamp?…_ that separate the entrance from the rest of the lobby that alarm him. It’s proof of resistance. Someone either was once here, or is still _here,_ and Alex feels like he’s caught in the open mouth of a monster, ready to swallow him whole. He’s suddenly aware of how exposed he is, center-stage in front of an audience that can see him behind this wall, but doesn’t grant him the privilege of being seen in return.

“Hello?” Alex calls, uncertain. Yeah, it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He should be running the other way instead. “Is anyone here?” But he’s kind of curious to see who the hell barricaded themselves in here like it’s the damned French Revolution.

Only quiet answers him. Then again, this is a big hotel, they could be anywhere in the upper floors.

Or the barricade did nothing but make them work up a sweat and they’re very very dead. There are enough stains on the floor to support that theory too. Still, Alex doesn’t put away the gun.

He’s a few more steps inside, careful and measured as if the humans are the real danger and not the monsters that pick them up at night. Then he hears them.

Footsteps reach him, much deeper into the lobby, muted yet full of equal parts dread and promise, in the forced stillness of the room. A door opens and closes—a stairwell perhaps? And then more footsteps escalate, until Alex is certain his unexpected host is on the other side of the barricade.

Shit, he should have run.

“Are you there?” he asks anyway, because even hindsight can’t save him.

“Take another step back,” a new voice demands. Alex’s eyes widen at the rich accent, complimenting the authoritative tone. And it sounds familiar, in a way. Or maybe he’s just projecting, because he hasn’t spoken to another human being in nearly two months now.

“Look, man, I just want—”

“Another step _back.”_

Alex huffs. “Okay. _Fine_.” He does as told, doing a little mock curtsy when he’s far enough. “You happy?” He’s not actually sure the other person sees him through the barrier though. Alex certainly can’t see them.

“Now put down your gun. And kick it towards me.” How does he know he has a gun?

“I don’t have—”

“Don’t lie to me! Put it down and kick it over. Now.”

“Or what? I know _you_ don’t have a gun,” he bluffs. Where would a British person get a gun?

The gunshot from the other side makes him flinch, a violent reaction that curls in his whole body. The sudden bang rings too loud in the eerie silence and it highlights what Alex has been trying so hard not to think about. This person is not his friend. And humans trying too hard to survive can be more dangerous than the thing that’s actively killing them.

“Okay, all right, fine. Here you fucking go, thanks for the hospitality,” Alex grumbles as he complies again, placing the gun down and carefully kicking it to slide over to the barrier. The person inside can’t reach out and take it, but maybe they feel safer knowing Alex can’t use it. Well, good for _them._ Fucker.

“Thank you,” the voice mutters. Oh, _sure_.

“Look, I’m not going to bother you. But I’m trying to go home and I was wondering if I could find some extra supplies here, if you’re willing to spare anything. The whole city is a fucking ghost town and all the places with food have been picked apart already.”

To their credit, the voice doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. But, uh, most of the stuff that’s left is on the higher floors and the electricity is not very stable. How do you feel about walking fifty flights of stairs?” Alex groans. “You can try the elevator, but…”

“But if I get trapped there and don’t get out before sunset I’m food, right?”

“… Yes.” They pause for a moment, before sighing. “You’re right, I apologize. I’ll… I’ll give you some of the things I have here and I’ll go upstairs myself to restock when needed.”

Alex’s heart clenches at the kindness. In a world this broken, this unstable, even an offer like this can be a sacrifice. “No, wait. What if we do it together? We’ll go upstairs together. And when you’re properly restocked in the lower floors, _then_ I’ll take my stuff and leave. How’s that?”

“Are you okay with waiting? You might need to spend the night.”

Oh, cool, avoidance. “It’ll be fine.” A moment later, he adds, “Wait, how do you know I don’t intend to, like, kill you in the middle of the night and take everything?”

“I figured a person that malicious would have been smarter than to call out _‘hello’_ when barging in here.”

Rude. “Maybe I was trying to get you to lower your guard.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

The voice chuckles, deep and soft and so pleasant in his ears. Fuck, he missed the sound of another human being next to him. “I’ll take that risk. What’s your name?”

“Alex,” he says with a smile the other cannot see. “Yours?”

But the voice falls quiet.

“What? Did an Alex murder your father or something?” he tries to tease, but it carries his anxiousness with it. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I’m sorry. Alex who?”

Alex frowns. _Do_ they know each other? Or did this person recognize him for being the president’s son? Suddenly, he doesn’t want to share his full name. He’s not sure he has a choice, though. Not with this person holding all the supplies. What if they have beef with his mom? Does that even _matter_ in the middle of an apocalypse? (People are stupid. It will always matter).

“Alex?”

Right. The voice is still very British.

“Alex Claremont-Diaz,” he admits and hears the sharp intake of breath from the other side. “Do we know each other?”

“I can’t believe this…” the voice says, and it sounds like they’re about to cry.

Alex starts to ask again when something shifts in the barrier. His stomach jumps in worry, before he realizes the pile is not toppling over—they’re opening a hole for him. He watches as a large green couch is dragged to the side like a door, fighting to remain in an upright position. And finally, behind it, he can peek at the rest of the lobby. And… and…

“Alex?”

“Oh, you have got to be fucking _joking,”_ he yells, but it’s not angry, it’s not annoyed. Alex is grinning, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, and he laughs, big, awkward guffaws of relief so intense he’s about to double over. “ _Henry_?”

Henry mirrors him, and he’s actually crying, no restrain about it, leaving wet trails down dirty cheeks, spilling over a smile larger and softer than anything the royal prick has ever shown in his presence. In anyone’s presence. As far as Alex’s biased ass knows. Never in a million years did he think he’d be this happy to see Prince fucking Henry in person, but he’ll be lying if he says he doesn’t want to pick him up in his arms and _twirl_ him, of all things, just for being here and familiar and _alive_ , a tiny piece of his life before the disaster.

“I can’t believe this,” Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Even the end of the world won’t spare us from following Zahra’s plans, huh?”

Henry scoffs, but the smile remains bright on his face. “I miss the days when pretending we’re best friends was my biggest problem.”

“Same,” he sighs, sobering up a little. 

His eyes roam over Henry, taking in this new, undiscovered version of him. His gaze catches on his curled-in shoulders, the way he favors his left leg. There are large bruises under his eyes, betraying too many sleepless nights, probably as many as Alex’s own, but the dark is so stark against his skin, paler than the last time they saw each other. There’s a large gash on his forehead, splitting his right brow and grazing the top of his cheekbone, It’s crusted with dried blood, but the skin around it remains a furious red.

Henry notices what Alex is doing and his smile falters, returning sadder than before.

“You know,” Alex tries to laugh it off. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see _you_ of all people. Fuck, I kinda want to hug you right now.”

Henry tenses but he doesn’t protest the idea. Alex’s eyes drift back to the wound again and he thinks _fuck it_.

Somehow Henry goes even more rigid the moment Alex wraps his arms around him, but it takes him only a moment to relax and return the hug, pulling him closer. With their height difference, Alex finds his face suddenly pressed against Henry’s shoulder, only a bit higher than where his heart is beating strong, stubborn beats against the world that wants to kill them. He feels him start to shake, and Alex wants to laugh at the past version of him who somehow hated this man for being too perfect, too emotionless.

How did Henry get stuck here, alone and so far from home?

“What are you… what are you doing in New York?” Henry asks when he finally pulls back, though his hands remain on Alex’s shoulders for a moment longer.

“What am _I_ doing in New York? You’re in the wrong country, your Highness!” He mocks offense then, trying to shake off the gravity that has settled between them. “You didn’t even call. What kind of fake best friend are you?”

Henry gives him a weak, wobbly kind of smile, but it’s enough, all things considered. “I would have. But then…”

“Yeah. That.” His gaze falls from Henry to the place around them, and notices the gun he had to discard before. “Are you here _alone_?”

“As far as I know. I haven’t heard anyone else in days—maybe a week? Most tried to flee during the first few days.”

“Where would they even go?” Alex sighs. He saw the same thing with the people in his complex. Running before they could even understand what was going on. Like there was anywhere they could hide.

Henry shrugs. “Maybe they were trying to see their loved ones, too. Didn’t you say you were trying to go home?”

“Yeah… But what about your equerry? Surely you didn’t come to the US without Shaan?”

Henry’s face darkens as he flinches, sending Alex’s heart all the way down to his stomach. “I… He’ll be back. That’s why the- the door isn’t barricaded. He’ll come back.”

“Henry—”

“Alex, _don’t,_ ” he turns away from him, but it doesn’t stop the tremble of his voice as he speaks; the curtain of false optimism he hides behind is too thin, too full of shadows. “He went to find a way for us to get home. If we’re all going to… I don’t want to…” He shakes his head, and brings his hand to his face. Alex knows he’s wiping a fresh wave of tears away. He also knows how that sentence was supposed to end.

_I don’t want to die here._

“How long has he been gone?”

“Four days today.” He sniffles, though when he turns to meet Alex’s gaze again, he’s not crying. His jaw is set with tension, his mouth a grim line despite the half-hearted, humorless huff he gives. “I don’t think… I haven’t slept since he left.”

Before Alex can say anything further on the subject, Henry insists that they should get started if they want him to be ready to leave the next day. He doesn’t look back at him as he walks past the barrier, or while he shuts it again behind them. He doesn’t look at him when Alex asks how he learned to shoot the gun he disarms and places behind his waistband, nor when he replies that Shaan taught him how to do it before he left.

Alex doesn’t acknowledge the pit that’s growing where his stomach used to be. No matter how fast it seems to hollow him out, it can’t hold all the dread and guilt that’s pooling there, fed by the thought of going away the next morning and leaving Henry alone again, a ghost to haunt the empty rooms, waiting for someone to come back for him.

After the hotel emptied, Henry tells him, he and Shaan moved their things from the 47th floor to the first, ransacked many of the adjoining rooms and barricaded both the lobby and the room in which Henry would spend the nights.

They make quick work of the upper floors for the rest of the day. They use the staff’s laundry chutes to get everything they need all the way down: snacks and drinks from the mini-bars, soaps and vanity kits from the bathrooms. Some rooms are still full of forgotten belongings. Alex refuses to touch any of them, even the ones that don’t have red splatters all over them.

When they have enough to sustain both him and Henry for a while, they head down to pick them up, using spare sheets as makeshift bindles to pack everything together. They’re quiet through most of it, with the odd conversation here and there.

Alex randomly starts laughing as they race down 27 ( _twenty-fucking-seven)_ flights of stairs, confusing the hell out of Henry.

“What’s so funny?”

Alex just cackles harder. “Of fucking _course_ you’d pick the biggest building you can find to barricade yourself in, you pompous ass!”

Henry rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too.

They use the kitchen to make food, using whatever ingredients haven’t spoiled after two months. Alex insists on doing it himself because British food is a fucking travesty and he has zero trust in Henry to not serve him a bland meal for what might as well be his last. He neglects to mention it’s his way of saying thank you for the help. The soft smile Henry grants him as he takes a seat close by to watch shows him he knows anyway. And the low, undignified moan he gives with the first bite tells Alex that a) mission accomplished and b) that bastard was definitely going to serve him something tasteless.

“Is that the last time we talked?” Alex asks, grinning despite the food still in his mouth.

“Hard to believe it’s been two months, isn’t it?” Henry says. “Or is it harder to believe we talked so much before all this?” He teases.

His smile falls when he looks at the window. Alex follows his gaze, his stomach immediately clenching when he notices how low the sun has gotten.

Warm orange light slips in through the window, the sunset soon upon them. It paints Henry’s blond hair in gold, but it can’t hide the sickly pallor that washes over his skin. He swallows hard before he speaks. “We should—we should prepare.”

Alex nods, for once out of words.

They rush up the stairs to the first floor, and into Henry’s room. Room number 17—he’s not sure why he files away that information. The windows are already boarded up with broken pieces of headboards and other assorted furniture, parts of the thick curtains stuck between the holes. The air is thick and a little musty, but not nearly as bad as Alex’s apartment was after two months with covered windows. Henry probably doesn’t spend time in here during the day.

They shut the door behind them, then lock it, then move the desk on the front, and one of the armchairs. They angle the suitcase holder to stop the handle from moving, just in case, even though it's probably useless. Alex turns all the lights off, because the darkness is scary but so is making yourself a target, even if, again, there’s never been any proof that they’re attracted by the light. The vast enormity of what they don’t know hammers against his gut with every new guess they have to make.

Henry lights up two candles he stole from the dining room. He settles them between them, as they sit on the floor, with Alex’s back against the bed and Henry to his right, leaning against the nightstand, hugging his knees close to his chest.

Once again, Alex doesn’t know what to say. It takes the end of the world to shut him up. Or maybe the two months he spent alone took something from him, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever get it back, not in the same way. 

But it also gave him something. Because he’s never been more grateful for another’s presence next to him, nor so worried. He never thought he’d care so much about Henry, not even when they started getting along.

His eyes flicker back to the harsh cut along his forehead.

“What happened to your head?” he whispers, too quiet, but there’s no other sound to hear as they wait.

Henry jolts slightly. “I… I don’t quite remember. It was the first night. We… we weren’t ready.” His face crumbles at the memory, and in the scarce light of the candle, the long shadows deepen the lines of his face into chasms, deep and endless. But where they should make him look harsher, Henry looks softer somehow. Vulnerable. A king without a kingdom, exiled in a country not his own to die.

Alex shudders, repulsed at his own mind. Henry wasn’t dying. He’d made it this far. “Did you _see_ them?”

“I—I think I did. I get flashes of it sometimes. Nightmares. Or even in the middle of the day, when a shadow looks too… odd in the wrong angle.”

He bites his tongue not to pressure him for more information. What did they look like? How do they hurt people? What left the mark and how did he survive? But Henry’s gaze is glazed over and hollow, his mind already spiraling in a truth he can’t remember but must feel deep within his bones. Henry told him earlier that he hasn’t slept since Shaan left. For the first time, Alex actually believes that.

“You know, there’s really no point in both of us staying up at this point. Do you want to get some sleep while I keep the first watch?”

Henry looks up at him, startled and a little afraid.

“It’ll be fine. Come on, you look _exhausted._ I’ll wake you up in a few hours. Or if anything happens. Scout’s honor.”

“I’m not sure I’ll manage,” he admits with a frown.

“Try anyway.”

Henry nods but doesn’t get up to use the mattress. He shifts in his spot to lean against the bed like Alex, and lets his head fall back against it.

“Were you really a boy scout?”

“Go the fuck to sleep, your Highness.”

His eyes drift shut and Alex can’t help but stare at him, forced into this awkward, uncomfortable position. There’s honesty in his fear. But it doesn’t take that long for his exhaustion to drag him into sleep.

Alex takes in the way his hair falls away from his face, the way his long lashes brush against the circles under his eyes as if to soothe them. His lips part slightly with a deeper breath, and Alex smiles at this fucking dork who once intimidated him.

 _You have a lot of moles,_ he texted him once, and Henry does.

Alex counts the beauty marks as he waits, as many as he can see. Two on his neck, parallel like tiny vampire bites, one on his cheek. At least seven of them are scattered on his lower arm, just the left one, the one Alex can see, where his sleeves were pushed up for their work earlier. The top two buttons of his shirt have come undone and one peeks from there too, a little dot of color against pale skin.

He doesn’t count how much time passes. He’s not planning on waking him up anyway, even though Alex needs to rest if he’s going to be driving the next day.

It turns out he doesn’t have to. Exactly as advertised, Henry starts to twist and turn soon. His brows furrow, his neck stretches to the side like he’s trying to avoid something, twisting so much it looks like it’ll snap.

Alex gives him a few moments, hoping it’ll pass, but when Henry whimpers in his sleep, he’s had enough.

“Henry,” he calls, shifting to sit on his knees and shaking Henry’s shoulder. “Come on, wake up. _Henry_.”

Henry jolts awake, eyes blown wide and frantic, roaming around in a panic. His hand flies forward and Alex manages to catch it with his own, keeping it in a tight grip as he sets it back down at their side.

“Easy, _easy_. It’s me, there’s just us here. You’re okay.” _For_ _now_ , he doesn’t add, because he’s way past the point where he hated Henry _that_ much.

Henry’s eyes connect at least, and he deflates with fatigue. “I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his face and it’s as though he plasters another layer of pure exhaustion over his features, half-lidding his eyes and down-turning the corners of his mouth. “Is it your turn? I’ll keep watch.”

Alex frowns. “You should get some more sleep.”

“I won’t,” he whispers, not looking at him. “It’s too quiet. People think it’s the loud noises they should fear, but there’s always… this one moment of absolute stillness before they come.”

Alex nods. He knows the quiet Henry speaks of, the calm before the storm, that one tense moment in the horror film before the jump-scare. He’d hated dwelling on it, refused to compare this situation with a scary movie even if that’s exactly what it is, because horror flicks _always_ have bad ends and he couldn’t imagine that for himself. But he can’t see a happy ending in sight any more. Even if they make it through.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Alex starts to ramble. “You know what pisses me off so much? How quickly everything fell apart. Two months ago, I was stressed about my mom not losing the presidency next year and—and whether I wanted to go to law school or not, which is what I was doing in New York, by the way, lot of good that did. I’ve always had my life planned out, you know? This long life-plan that I refused to stray from, not even stopping to consider I might like something more until June all but whacked me on the head with it. And then the world was like ‘ _fuck_ your plans. And your goals. And your dreams. Fuck your reality.’ I hate feeling like nothing matters. Like nothing ever mattered in the first place.”

It reminds Alex of the long conversation they had through texts, where his inability to care about Henry’s opinion of him had him ranting his day away to him, until Alex felt less like screaming into the void and more like… talking to a friend.

Henry sits up in a more upright position, confused by hanging off his every word. “Alex…” he says, and his voice, albeit hoarse, is so soothing. “Of course it mattered. It made you who you are.”

“Well, what good did that do?” he scoffs, though his heart is hammering against his chest, so loud he’s afraid Henry’s going to hear it.

Henry switches half a dozen expressions in two seconds. Alex catches only a few: shock, disbelief, restraint. Henry gapes, but when he tries to say something, he stops himself, biting hard on his dried lips instead. “Don’t say that,” he says in the end, through clenched teeth.

Alex wonders what choice words Henry had for him and refused to share. He looks around aimlessly for a moment but his gaze kept coming back to Henry. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s a thing you worried about before this mess? What kept you up at night before?”

Henry freezes, his eyes glued somewhere far away from Alex’s own and refusing to look up to meet them.

“Come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“Well, err…” Henry clears his throat. The light must be playing tricks on him, because Alex swears his cheeks were not that red moments ago. “The thing is, it still applies.”

Alex snorts. “It _still_ applies? In the middle of the fucking apocalypse? What the fuck could possibly _still_ be stressing you out now?”

Henry looks up, more of a grimace than a smile on his face. He looks at him for a second, like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth saying. Something lights up in his eyes, a newfound determination, dulled by the sad overtone this new reality covered everything with. “You,” he says, he starts to say when they feel it.

It’s like the very air they breathe freezes in time with the world. A moment of complete, all-encompassing stillness, like someone snapped a photograph of the before, and held the moment tightly, for as long as they could before they’re forced to face the _after_.

Henry gasps, his back straightening. The muscles of his legs tense, ready to run, except there’s nowhere to go.

Alex forces himself to take deep breaths through his nose, ignore the sudden dizziness he gets from the blood rushing to his head. He grabs for the gun, arms it, before he notices Henry shaking his head. He raises a brow at him.

 _Won’t work_ , he mouths. Alex doesn’t have time to ask him how he knows that.

Something bangs against the window, the glass shaking behind all the barriers. The door follows right on cue, rattling like it’s stuck in a hurricane. Henry moves on his hands and knees, coming closer to Alex, and Alex doesn’t think, just takes a handful of his shirt in a tight grip, keeping him within reach.

Footsteps reach from the window, loud and heavy, banging against the glass, like someone’s stampeding on the side of the building. But from the halls, it’s not a run. No, the sound is too drawn and it doesn’t stop. Like a hundred someones—or ten enormous some _things_ —are dragging their limbs down the floor. But Alex is struck with an image of bodies being dragged away, leaving trails behind, ugly crimson stains and those pitch-black marks that betrayed their presence in the lobby. He tugs on the shirt and pulls Henry closer.

But the sound doesn’t stop. It grows louder and louder, reaching all the way to their door.

Alex feels the blood leave his face. Henry is as white as the sheets on the bed, his eyes closed tight, looking like he’s about to puke. His breathing is fast, too fast, and Alex is too scared to figure out how to help him, other than press their shoulders together for both their sakes.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “Why are they so close?” But he knows why. Alex’s neighbors barricaded all the entrances before they left. And the ones they didn’t, Alex broke into and boarded up himself. Henry never had a chance of doing that in this building. At night, everything outside Henry’s room is their playground. No wonder he never managed to sleep. No wonder Shaan risked everything to get him out of there.

The dragging suddenly stops.

Henry peers one eye open to look at him. Alex still hasn’t let go of his shirt, the material crumbled to hell in his palm.

Then they hear it.

A low, pained moan from right outside the door. It sounds human. It sounds like it’s begging for help.

Henry’s hand flies to his mouth. He freezes for only a second, before he tries to get up, but Alex tugs him back down.

“Alex—”

“Henry, you can’t open the door,” he hisses. Panic courses through him, bringing tears to his eyes. He can’t make this decision, he _cannot_ make this decision, dear God, what did they do to deserve this? “You can’t—you just can’t.”

“If someone is _out_ there—” he sobs. His breathing has worsened, and he’s fully panting now, a splotchy redness spreading all over his face. He’s shaking hard enough for Alex to feel the tremors run through his own frame, or maybe he’s just as scared and twice in denial.

“You said it yourself, there’s no one else in here!”

“What if there is? What if someone walked in like you did?” Henry tears himself from his grip and heads towards the door. He hesitates in front of the obstructions though, turning around for one last glance at Alex that’s heavy with guilt and fear and all of the uncertainty a single person can carry before they crumble. “I…” 

Henry is willing to risk his own life to save a random stranger caught in the massacre outside their door. But he’s not willing to risk Alex.

The moan comes again, louder, strained with pain and misery. Alex closes his eyes, trying to shut off everything else, every pleading expression on Henry’s face, every rampant emotion playing pinball with his heart, his stomach, and just focus on the sound itself. It does sound human. It sounds so human, so tortured and afraid, Alex needs to hold on to the bed frame to keep himself upright. But it echoes with something funny, the barest afterword to the sound that’s not supposed to be there. And he _latches_ on to that detail to keep his sanity intact.

Except Henry won’t let go that easily.

“Look, _look!_ ’”Alex intervenes. “There’s a peephole, right? We’ll very carefully and as fast as we possibly can shift the things that are covering it just enough to take a peek. The door remains sealed until then though. Okay?”

Henry hesitates, his eyes darting between Alex and the door, before he gives a terse nod and starts rearranging their makeshift wall. Alex rushes over to help, leaving the gun nearby, within reach. It’s not easy to rearrange everything so they’re still safe inside but the peephole is revealed, and it takes them too long for comfort. The moaned pains from outside continue, escalating, joined by cries and whispers that carve larger pieces out of Henry each time, first breaking his expression, then his resolve, until he’s bent over in half, desperately trying to get to the other side. Alex, however, keeps hearing the strange echo in every cry and holds on to it, amplifies it in his head so that it’s the only thing he hears.

They manage to open a small hole, but it’s still over layers of things and Alex is not tall enough to stretch above them and reach the door. He doesn’t even have a chance to rethink this plan, before Henry throws himself over the barrier and just about manages to press his face against the door to look outside.

As if they know they’re being watched, the moan echoes again, reverberating through Alex’s skull.

Henry is stuck, staring, not a single sound coming from him.

“Henry…?” Alex dares to ask, his whisper quiet as a breath, yet it scratches his throat on the way out. “What is it?”

A shiver runs down his spine, shaking all of him in bits, like his body can’t process fast enough to react at the same time. He stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet, and falling on the floor. A sob claws its way up his throat, and Alex finally remembers what _real_ pain sounds like, and the way fear can spread like poison through voice alone. It marks the inhumanity they’ve been hearing for what it is, and he knows that whatever Henry saw through the hole, it wasn’t a human pleading for their help.

 _Did you see them?_ Alex asked him earlier.

_I don’t quite remember._

Well, now he did.

Henry crawls over to the trash can, and buries his head in it, retching between sobs. Alex patches up the hole, then falls to his knees next to him. He doesn’t stop to think about it; he places his arms around Henry, one hugging his chest from behind, the other pushing sweaty blond hair away from his face. And when Henry is done, with nothing else to give, no horror and no sound, just twin, messy trails of tears marking paths down his cheeks in silence, Alex pulls him up and against his chest, knowing he won’t complain when a few of his own tears slip down onto him.

They’re leaving tomorrow. Together. Even if he has to fight him for it.

* * *

Alex wakes up hours later, spread over the parqueted floor of the hotel room. Gross. There’s no light coming from the sealed windows, but there’s a digital alarm clock on the nightstand that’s still working. 6:56. It’s morning.

“Henry?” he mumbles, coughing against the dryness of his throat.

No answer.

Alex jumps to his feet immediately, searching the room. The barrier has been deconstructed from the door, which is partly ajar, revealing dark hallways on the other side. Henry is not in the room with him.

Alex doesn’t bother to make himself look human, or throw some water on his face; he’s awake enough and he needs to find out where that insufferable, inconsiderate bastard has run off to so early in the morning. There are more stains down the hallways he races through them than the day before, the tar-like substance sticky under his shoes. Did Henry open the door himself and leave? Or did they somehow manage to break in and they… they took him? Alex would have been dead too in that case, right? Right?

 _Please, be downstairs. Please, please, be stupid, not dead. Please, Henry, please,_ he screams in his mind as he takes the stairs two at a time.

He barges in the kitchen, the door slamming against the wall, startling Henry from where he’s leaning over a smoking pan.

“Oh, hey,” he greets, before he notices his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you a complete fucking _idiot_ ? What the hell is wrong with you, you asshole?” Alex growls, but it’s not exactly intimidating when he’s still panting from exertion and stress alike. Henry looks helplessly lost, and Alex wants to punch that look off of his face. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend the night hiding from _monsters_ that can break in the room and _kill_ you, then wake up in the morning _alone_?”

Henry pales. “Alex, I—I told you I was coming down here this morning.”

“ _What_?” he snaps.

“I told you I was going to the kitchen. You said okay.”

Alex catches his breath again, and places a hand against the nearest counter to steady himself. “You did?” Henry nods. “How awake was I?”

The cringe tells him all he needs to know. “Well… I suppose you could have been a little more coherent. I apologize. I can’t even imagine…”

“I guess it’s not _entirely_ your fault then,” Alex sighs. He eyes the half-burned mess on the stove. “What did you _murder_?”

Henry looks back at his handiwork and crinkles his nose. “Yes, well… It didn’t really… go as planned. But I think it’s still edible?”

“Sure it is. Move over, I’ll try to salvage those poor ingredients of yours.”

To his surprise, Henry is not wrong. It’s not the pancakes Henry was going for, but the pancake-adjacent mixture does not taste half-bad when Alex is done with it. They splurge on some luxury ingredients Alex knows he can’t carry with him, and Henry apparently doesn’t mind wasting on him, like a fresh jar of peanut butter—actually screw that, Alex is keeping it.

Henry is quiet as they eat, eyes heavy and forlorn. The bags under his eyes have not lessened in the slightest, and Alex knows there’s a new thing to keep him up at night, courtesy of his own brilliant plan to have him look outside the door. The fact that Alex will never be able to forget the sound of Henry’s cries can’t make up for it.

It’s that memory that grants him the courage to open his mouth. “You’re coming with me,” he demands, no questions asked.

“Excuse me?” One. One question asked.

Alex looks up at him, and, much to his annoyance, copies a stance he knows too well. Proud back, jaw sticking out. “You’re packing your stuff, whatever you can carry. And you’re coming with me. You’re not spending another night in this place, Henry. It’s not safe. You saw what happened yesterday. And honestly, you should not be alone.”

Henry pushes his plate away. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he frowns, a storm brewing in his eyes. “Alex… I- I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, Shaan—”

“ _Shaan’s_ —” Alex cuts himself off. Henry knows what he was going to say, anyway, and he’s glaring at him through eyes too wet to be any sort of threatening. “We’ll leave him a message. If he managed to make it out there alive for 5 days on his own, he sure as hell can catch up to us as we head to Texas. You’re right,” he lies around the lump in his throat, though he hopes with all of his heart that it’s the truth, “it’s Shaan. And he’ll be able to follow us home.”

“Home,” Henry huffs, shaking his head.

“What’s your better choice, Henry? Just come with me. I don’t… I don’t want to leave you here alone,” Alex admits. Henry looks up at the admission, alarmed. “But I can’t stay here. Please?”

“You want me to follow you out there. To die.”

“I want you to follow me out there to _try_. You said it yourself, you don’t wanna die in here.”

He feels a prick of guilt when Henry flinches, which dissipates the instant he opens his mouth again. “I never said that.”

Alex groans. “ _Henry._ Come with me.”

He doesn’t know how to make him understand. He’s never been equipped to describe something like this. How does he say that yes, they might both just go out there to die, but at least, at least Alex won’t die alone, trapped in the middle of nowhere with no one to ever hear his last words? Or how the thought of the same thing happening to Henry scares him more, that the thought of not knowing what became of him makes him sick? What words can convey that the weight of him in his arms yesterday as they held each other close made him feel like something mattered again for the first time since the actual end of the world?

What list can he make that will convince Henry to come with him, because his presence is the last good thing from his life before that he can keep as safe as he can for as long as possible?

“Ride or die,” he tries once more. “We go together.”

Henry’s quiet, the storm in his eyes a hurricane, contained yet alive in clear sky blue. “… And if I watch you die first?”

The tone of his voice steals the air from his lungs. It’s laced with the same desperation that’s wallowing in the pit of his stomach. “You won’t,” he lies.

“You can’t bloody _promise_ that, Alex!”

“Then at least you’ll _know_!”

Henry gapes. Alex can pinpoint the moment realization settles in. His words sink into Henry’s skin like knives, leaving fresh wounds open and raw, shedding light to things he’d rather keep hidden. But fuck him, it works.

“Okay.”

“ _Really_?”

Henry laughs, and it’s so devoid of humor it hurts more than the silence. “Don’t make me regret this already.”

“You won’t,” Alex grins, nodding like a bobble-head. “Well, you _might_. But we’ll work it out!”

Alex heads out to fetch the car, while Henry prepares for their departure. He organizes food and supplies—what they can take and how. He even packs some candles, lighters and matches. Heck, he finds a culinary torch in the kitchen and picks that up too, along with some knives. And the guns. Together they empty the cars still in the parking lot for gas too, storing it in whatever safe container they can find.

Henry leaves a note to Shaan, explaining where he’s going. He leaves another note to whoever else might show up after Alex, with detailed instructions about which rooms they’ve left untouched, how number 17 is still ready to be barricaded, and how they must never, _ever_ open their doors at night no matter what they hear.

They load everything into the car. Alex picks up a map from a tourist stop on the way back and they mark the path they should take, trying to figure out travel times and at which place they should stop and hole themselves up during the nighttime. Neither of them dares voice that there might come a point where they have nowhere to stop.

What Henry does say is this:

“Are you certain this is what you want? Us traveling together?” He’s already in the passenger seat, leaning over the map Alex has spread out in front of them. They’re ready to leave, waiting on the edge of either jumping in or backing down.

“Well, I’m not going to stay here.”

“No, I mean… Didn’t you hate me? You’re sure you want to travel together?”

Alex packs up the map, an incredulous look on his face as he turns to Henry. It falters, however, when he sees the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s chewing through his lower lip again. “I did. Past tense. Come on, we texted like every day before this happened. We were… kind of friends… Right? We were going to be friends if we’d been given the chance. I think we would have tried for real.”

Blue eyes slip from his own, down to his lap, then back up to linger on his lips, like he’s expecting Alex to say something more. He nods. “Yes. I think I would— _we_ would have tried.”

Alex fucking beams, the smile straining at his cheeks after so many days of sadness. “Then fuck it! Fuck this unforgiving universe, we’ll figure it out!”

He turns on the ignition, feeling Henry’s gaze on him. There are a hundred things they don’t know in front of them, and dangers they can’t begin to understand. But for the first time since he thought to run, he knows he’s ready. _They_ ’re ready. They’ll fight through the doom days together and carve their own path home.

**Author's Note:**

> . . . SO! A couple of things:
> 
> First of, I hope you enjoyed! This fic kinda kicked my ass but it was very fun to write too!
> 
> Which brings me to my next point! I would actually be kind of interested in writing out their road trip, but only if there's enough interest! So please if you liked it, let me know! (And if you'd rather this stays a one-shot, lemme know that too!) 
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading. Find me on tumblr @ saltfics !!


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